The League of the ?
by Belfast Docks
Summary: "Oh, make no mistake, Sir Percy," Marguerite replied, a mischievous smile gracing her pretty mouth, "This is all your fault. You know it is." Fluff and fun, taking place after the novels.


**Author's Note:** This is merely a random piece of fluffiness, quite entangled with little comedic quirks. Worse, it's _completely_ inaccurate! I assumed when I started writing it that croquet was a common sport during the Regency Era, but after engaging in minor research I've discovered the first documented account of croquet was in the mid-1800's. On the other hand, I do like the start of this piece, if only because it was devilishly fun to stick Percy into a frustrating situation, so… well, what you see is what you get – history be demmed. The Baroness didn't put much accuracy into her stories either, so that's my silly justification. All in all – don't take this one too seriously.

~BD

* * *

**The League of the . . .**

* * *

It was Sir Percy's turn at the ball, and he was sorry to say he wished it _weren't_. Ffoulkes (damn him) was winning the blasted game, while it had been Hastings' ridiculous idea to begin with. Blakeney's only consolation was that Denys and Tony were doing almost as badly as he was, which was truly saying something.

Then again, he had always _detested_ croquet. Insufferable game, truly. He briefly contemplated if a man dressed in black had created it solely for his personal torture, but even if this were the case, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it now. Said man who dressed in black was dead, quite dead, and there was no telling where his lowly grave might be.

So, eyeing the playing field carefully, Sir Percy cringed and bent to task. With a resigned sigh (for there was no getting out of his turn, no matter how much he wished it), and a resounding, discordant _thwack_, he sent his bright blue ball tumbling across the carefully trimmed lawn, right _past_ the hoop rather than neatly_through_ it, and most unfortunately _without_ striking Andrew's offending red ball _or_ Hasting's gratingly cheerful yellow one.

"Lud love you, man." Ffoulkes cracked an ill-disguised grin as he watched the blue ball finally come to rest far from where it should have. "I've watched you do many a thing, but I'll be demmed if you can play croquet to save your life, Percy."

Stowmarries, who was casually watching the fun rather than participating, remarked, "Good fortune that Monsieur Chauvelin never challenged you thus, Blakeney. Or you'd have mounted the steps to Madame Guillotine in a trice, I daresay."

Irritated, Percy responded dryly, "Monsieur Chauvelin could not possibly have had the time to play croquet; not with the way the Revolutionary government kept him at work chasing the Scarlet Pimpernel. And if I do say so myself, it's a horribly boorish sport. Surely there must be _something_ else to do."

Andrew smiled. "We're halfway through, now. Would be a shame to stop, eh what?"

"And besides," Hastings said, as Andrew ducked his head to avoid Percy's scowl, and took careful aim, busying himself with the perfect shot. "What else is there to do, Blakeney?"

However, before Percy could formulate another snappish response, a sudden cry of shock caught him completely off guard.

"_Mon Dieu!_"

The explanative had come from Richmond's lavish tea garden, where the ladies had gathered for the afternoon (thus leaving the men to amuse themselves by their own devices). And it had been Marguerite's lovely voice, though perhaps not quite so lovely when it sounded so horrified. The very sound alerted Percy to some impending doom or calamity. Clearly, _something_ had happened, and it obviously wasn't his abysmal performance on the croquet lawn.

Worse, hardly two seconds later, Lady Ffoulkes cried out, "George!" – and, as if they were one entity, the men dropped their mallets and hastened towards the garden, Sir Percy in the lead, the game clearly forgotten. For a brief, fleeting moment the Scarlet Pimpernel had felt a spark of the old excitement that had once gripped his blood ten years prior. Damsels in distress, a daring rescue, and safety across the Channel! Tally ho!

Obstacles, not in the form of Revolutionary guards in tattered clothing bearing rusty bayonets and ill-cleaned rifles, but in the form of bewildered servants in starched aprons and tailcoats, had appeared on the path leading to the tea garden, for the men folk were not the only ones to have heard the commotion. Percy merely brushed them aside with slight aggravation as he made his way around the winding paths, coming closer to the source of the surprise.

He could now hear his wife plainly sputtering, and quite incoherently, in a jumble of both English and French, and instantly, the momentary thrill of acting out his former, dual personality faded. Marguerite was clearly not afraid of whatever it was that had startled her. Actually…she sounded angry.

Sir Percy could barely hide his disappointment. But of _course_ he could not play the Scarlet Pimpernel these days, and there was no impending danger at Richmond that his wife could not handle on her own. Still, her voice was rising dangerously high in her tirade, and he would need to find out what, or who, had crossed her path this afternoon, when they were entertaining their closest, most intimate friends only.

But as he turned the corner and entered the garden, he came to an abrupt halt in shock.

His ten-year-old son was standing before Marguerite, and the boy was _sopping wet_.

The puddle that had formed beneath his feet was steadily growing larger even whilst he stood before his mother, and in truth, he looked utterly sulky beneath the long, auburn locks that were plastered to his forehead. He was clutching something in his arms, wrapped in a semi-dry waistcoat.

Worse, behind Richard stood Sir Andrew's ten-year-old son, George, who was just as wet and clutching a second bundle. As were Lord Tony's two boys, nine-year-old John and seven-year-old William, and even Lord Hasting's son, whom they all affectionately called Charlie, and was the youngest of the lot at the age of five.

It had been no secret, that when a few members of the former League and their wives had come to Richmond for the afternoon, that the older children had asked if they might go down to the river to play. The request had been granted, but that had been an hour ago. But no one expected the boys to return thus.

The small gaggle of girls who were old enough to go along, and had accompanied their brothers and friends to the river, were gathered in a little circle nearby, just beneath the arbor that led to Richmond's extensive parks. Percy's darling seven-year-old daughter Florence, Andrew's six-year-old angel Abigail, and Deny's twin seven-year-olds, Jane and Charlotte, all looked terrified and upset; faces were pink and flushed, Abigail had tearstains on her pretty cheeks, and they huddled together protectively.

Percy's entrance into the garden caused Marguerite to turn and find him, the silk of her beautiful, silver-toned regency-styled gown rustling slightly. "Did _you_give them permission to go swimming thus, Sir Percy?"

"Not that I recall," he said slowly, wondering if perhaps he had unknowingly given his son the impression that such a thing was permissible during breakfast that morning, before their guests had arrived. But he didn't _think_ he had.

Andrew, sensible as always, stepped forward and said gently, though bewildered, "George? What on earth happened? Surely you _didn't_ go swimming in your clothes."

But the five boys seemed resolutely silent and sullen; none would look up at their fathers and all shifted in a guilty sort of fashion.

Perhaps they were simply trying to think of the best way to explain, so Percy tried to catch his son's eye and prompted, "Well, m'boy?"

But before anything else could be said, the bundle that John was carrying let out a plaintive _mewing_ sound.

Everyone seemed startled by this, and John quickly flushed a dull pink as he tried to rearrange his bundle.

Fortunately, little Florence contrived to speak, seeing that her brother and his friends would not do so on their own.

"It was the other boys," she said, turning great, beautiful blue eyes to her father. Eyes that could move the moon and stars if they so desired, and often did.

Suspicious, and still eyeing the bundles, Marguerite demanded, "What other boys?"

"The boys from the village, maman. We had gone to the river to play sticks over the bridge, and we met several of them there. They were going to throw the kittens in." Florence sniffed; she looked positively terrified with her little hands twisting before her.

At her words, the ladies gasped and stared. Even the men exchanged surprised glances.

Percy took a few steps forward and knelt before her, placing one large hand on top of her tiny ones, and encouraged her to continue her story even as a pain stabbed his heart that she should have been so upset by something so terrible. "And then what happened, chéri?"

Under her father's gentle gaze, she seemed to gain additional courage. "Richard told them not to, papa. The mother cat had died, you see. And the village boys said they would have some fun and see how long it took before the poor things were drowned, because they wouldn't live without a mother, so they might as well be killed."

"_Mon Dieu_!" Yvonne, Lady Dewhurst, whispered, clutching her fingers into a tight fist.

"Well? We couldn't let them!" Richard burst out indignantly, glancing at his compatriots. "They're just innocent kittens! They didn't do anyone harm!"

His outburst caused an interesting effect, for all of the young boys seemed to start talking at once.

John furiously added, "We told the braggarts to put them down, but they wouldn't listen!"

"And then," George exploded, "they threw the lot into the river before Rich could stop them!"

William held his squirming bundle more tightly and snarled, "Rich and George and I jumped in the river after them, and John beat two of them in fisticuffs before we got out of the water."

"John!" Yvonne looked horrified.

Her husband, on the other hand, had the _audacity_ to crack a grin and sternly say, "I do hope they were your own age, John, and not younger. Would be very un-sportsmanlike to pummel a younger lad, you know."

His wife turned and stared at him, words utterly failing her, and Tony managed to rearrange his expression quickly – but not quite fast enough.

"One was older than John," piped up little Charlie, before Yvonne could lose her temper with Tony. "I dived in the river too, papa!"

"Clearly." Hastings sighed, rubbing his temple with two fingers.

"And after we got the kittens out, we jumped on them again," Richard said proudly, while looking defiant. "We sent them running back to the village; the lot of cowards!"

"With a couple of broken heads," added John, quite mischievously (his mother closed her eyes as though either in pain or furious – it was hard to tell which).

There was a long pause, and Marguerite turned to frown stonily Sir Percy, who was trying his damnedest not to smile.

It didn't work. He simply couldn't help it. After a couple of ill-concealed sniggers, he burst into a loud, long laugh that rang through the garden and across Richmond's lawn.

His wife clenched her fists against her pretty gown and said archly, "I do wonder where on earth they would _get_ such ideas! Rescuing poor innocents from death, I mean! What think you, Sir Percy?"

"Odd's life, m'dear, but how the devil should I know what put such notions in their heads? But a good thing they did, or five innocent kittens would have perished miserably, and for absolutely no good reason. Drowning the lot because they wouldn't live without a mother? They look about five weeks old to me; old enough to be chasing mice away, what? And perfectly healthy. Yes, quite good the boys rescued them, I think."

Lord Tony grinned. "I agree. And next they'll tell us they have a name for themselves, I daresay! The League of the –"

"Anthony, you needn't encourage them," Yvonne said disapprovingly, cutting him off.

Suzanne added, "Nor you, Andrew."

"I wouldn't dream of encouraging them," Sir Andrew assured her. Then he added, a trifle sarcastically, "Tony, _bless him_, does enough of that for _all_ of us."

"Father? Can we keep the kittens?" Charlie asked hopefully.

Hastings shook his head. "I have no objections, if your mother does not."

"What about us?" John and William asked together.

Yvonne sighed. "I suppose you may keep your prizes. That is usually how it works, is it not, dearest?" She glanced at her husband, her expression both coy and irritated at the same time.

"I believe so," Lord Tony agreed, trying to sound nonchalant. "I received a most excellent prize once, just in the same way, boys."

John looked highly interested. "Did you jump in a river?"

"And get a kitten?" William added eagerly.

"Absolutely not. I jumped into a brawl and rescued your mother, of course."

"That," Sir Percy said dryly, "is a downright falsehood. _I_ jumped into the brawl and rescued your wife, while _you_ went scampering about the countryside, if memory serves."

"Lugging seventeen stones was hardly _scampering_ about the countryside, Blakeney. True, it was a necessary task, but not nearly as exciting as jumping into a brawl and rescuing a beautiful woman who also happened to be my wife. I still don't understand why you didn't let _me_ do that, while you did my assigned task instead!"

Annoyed, Percy said, "If you don't understand _now_, there's no sense explaining it to you, Tony."

"Blakeney always had all the fun," Stowmarries grumbled.

"Well, dem it all, if you wish to have fun, go back and finish my round of croquet!"

"Absolutely not. You're losing! Why should I want to finish your round?"

"Enough," Marguerite said tersely. "Frank?" She turned to her husband's faithful valet, who had stoically appeared to help, if necessary. "Would you take the boys inside, please? They'll need dry clothes, if nothing else. And perhaps some warm tea; otherwise, they'll catch their death of colds."

"And give the kittens to the girls," Suzanne said suddenly, as the boys made to follow Frank. "I don't think they need another bath, and I imagine the poor dears are terrified."

Reluctantly, the boys turned to find their sisters or other girls, and handed their mewing bundles over. Florence in particular seemed very happy to receive Richard's trembling kitten, and promised to take good care of it while he was gone. Her brother did not reply, but sullenly joined the others in trooping up to the manor.

As soon as the boys had gone, Suzanne smiled and told the girls to take the kittens to one of the lawns, so the little things could play and dry out in the warm sunshine. There were no objections, and the girls hurried off together.

However, once the childish chatter had grown faint, Sir Percy could feel his mouth twitching into a smile again, which was not helped by Marguerite's severe expression.

Trying to divert her annoyance, he said, "Now, m'dear, don't look so upset –"

Unfortunately, his wife's mouth formed a tighter line, as did Yvonne's.

"There was no harm was done, now was there?" Sir Percy gave her a hopeful smile.

"And what if," his wife demanded, keeping her slender form perfectly straight and regal, "those village boys come looking for them, to settle the score?"

Under his breath, Lord Tony commented, "I imagine John will pounce upon them all, and that would be the end of it."

At this, all of the men chuckled, and Percy's grin widened.

"Really, m'dear, it's not such a bad thing, is it? And they _did_ save the kittens."

"Oh, make no mistake, Sir Percy," Marguerite replied, a mischievous smile gracing her pretty mouth, "This is all your fault. You know it is."

He burst out laughing once again. "Is it indeed? Perhaps, but m'dear, you seem to have forgotten one _very_ important detail."

She arched an eyebrow quizzically at him. "Oh? And, pray tell, what would that be?"

"You see, Richard had not one, but _two_ parents in the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. So, any such ideas…daring rescues, I mean…obviously didn't come from just me, Margot."

At this, the atmosphere changed subtly but drastically. Andrew turned abruptly and said, "_Ah_, yes, I believe I was winning our croquet game. Hastings?"

Hastings nodded vigorously. "Denys?"

Denys coughed and turned to leave the tea garden as well. "Stowmarries?"

Stowmarries followed at a fast pace, glancing over his shoulder only to add, "Dewhurst?"

Tony turned on heel. "Right you are."

And while the men hurried off, Marguerite merely glared at her husband, who simply couldn't help it, and burst out laughing again, quite affectionately. It was really too rich: his son and the sons of his friends, making daring rescues about the English countryside, saving innocents from death. It was really quite charming, and he knew that despite her attempts to scowl over such a thing, Marguerite found it endearing, too.

**~FIN~**


End file.
